Nicene #9 Liverpool
- 13 hours ago
- 2 min read
Liverpool: Which Door Stays Open?
Nicene Creed Series #9
“He ascended into heaven
and is seated at the right hand of the Father.”
—-
The Liver Birds keep watch
above the city.
Samuel is thirty-four.
He comes from South Sudan.
For now,
he lives
in the Britannia Hotel.
One room.
One suitcase.
His white nursing shoes
wait beneath the bed.
Inside his Bible
lies a folded certificate.
Registered Nurse.
Sometimes
he unfolds it,
looks at his name,
then slips it back
between the Psalms.
Night shifts.
The smell of antiseptic.
A frightened child
finally falling asleep.
An old man
who always called him,
“Doctor.”
That life
belongs
to somebody else now.
Every Sunday
his father
read the lesson.
Samuel carried
the processional cross.
He learnt the Creed
before he learnt
to shave.
He knew
when to stand.
When to kneel.
When to answer,
“Thanks be to God.”
Nobody imagined
the front door
would one day
close on him.
It began
with somebody
seeing him
holding another man’s hand.
Rumours travelled.
His father
stood
in the doorway.
Neither spoke.
The door closed.
His boyfriend
was beaten
outside the market.
When Samuel
reached the hospital,
his face
was almost
unrecognisable.
The television
played all day.
Neither of them
watched it.
Samuel read
Psalm Twenty-Three.
Sometimes
they said nothing.
Sometimes
they simply
held hands.
The morning
he came home,
Samuel kissed
his forehead.
“You must
forget me.”
Neither of them
believed it.
A week later,
Samuel left.
Every Sunday
he walks
up Hope Street.
Halfway up,
two bronze doors
stand open
between
the cathedrals.
He always slows.
His father’s door
closed behind him.
These ones
never do.
The church
is noisy.
Coffee.
Children running.
Someone tuning
a guitar.
The vicar
rolls up
his sleeves.
An elderly woman
slips two biscuits
into his pocket.
“For later.”
Nobody asks
where he’s been.
Nobody knows
he is gay.
Sometimes,
during the Peace,
he wonders,
if they knew,
would another door
close?
They never say
the Creed here.
Still,
the words return,
learnt
beside his father
years ago.
“He ascended into heaven,
and is seated
at the right hand
of the Father.”
At Communion
he holds out
empty hands.
“The Body of Christ
keep you
in eternal life.”
Back in his seat,
he closes
his eyes.
A Lamb.
Standing.
As though
it had been slain.
The wounds
are still there.
Outside,
the cathedral bells
cross Hope Street.
Samuel turns
towards
the Britannia.
Tomorrow
there will be
another letter
to wait for.
His nursing shoes
will still be
beneath the bed.
He passes
the bronze doors.
Still open.
-Rev’d Jon Swales,
June2026
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